Twirling
by Zellarest
Summary: Lysander follows Molly along on her twirling path. /MollyLysander. Rated T for one instance of vulgar language and brief suggestion of alcohol.


For the Exam at Hogwarts! "Write about something that is difficult to do. It can be anything from telling someone something to someone overcoming fear. The possibilities are endless."

Dedicated to Maru! For helping me love Lilsander, this is for you.

Rated T for an instance of cursing and suggestion of alcohol.

Words: 1780 without AN.

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The lights shine down on the hall from above. Their rays, alternating in colors of blue and purple, reflect off the glassy dance floor. Superfluous dress hems sweep across its surface. Shiny shoes _ratta tap tap_ against it.

Few remain seated, excluding Lysander and a few others. The sultry sound of the Wicked Sisters reverberates through the hall— and the whole castle, judging by its volume.

Lysander sits at a large table given the appearance of a frozen ice cap. In a stiff, high-backed chair, he begins swirling his punch around in its cup. His date had long abandoned him. The sight of Lorcan sliding and twirling along the dance floor with his own smashing date only further depresses him.

If Lysander were being honest, he'd never stood a chance with Dominique anyhow. _Too loud and much too proud_, he thinks, looking across the floor to where she stood. _And much too with Lucy, it seems._

A cool breeze from the Entrance Hall swirls up the snow at his feet and washes over him. He shivers and pulls his robes closer around himself. Without another thought to it, he shrugs it off a takes a swig of punch. The familiar tingle shoots down his spine in the seconds the cool liquid slides down his throat. At least he knows it was spiked with some good stuff.

The music lulls for a moment and then comes to a stop. Listening for complaints, he hears the band announce something about "taking it slow."

"Great, now we can all feel miserable." Lysander muttered, taking down the rest of the punch.

He hadn't noticed the light footfalls nor the coolness on his ear. A soft voice with a hint of a laugh behind it whispers, "Don't be like that now, Sandy."

"For fuck's sake!" he shouts, starting violently.

The girl gave a bubbly giggle. "Jumpy much?" she teases, rocking side to side as her dress swishes merrily.

The ruby red dress scarcely reaches the end of her thigh and the sleeves stop just barely after her shoulders do. In her hand is a tall, glittering glass of liquid that matches its luminous hue. The wealth of red has been plundered. Even as he drinks her in she takes a hearty swig of it.

The surprise quickly turns to anger.

"Shouldn't you be off with Scorpius in a dingy closet somewhere, Lily?" he lashes, scowling at the scantily clad redhead.

"Still bitter, I see." she observes in a murmur, reaching out a hand as if to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Albus would be in the closet anyhow, both figuratively... and literally."

Lysander flinches away from her hand. "I'm going for some air. And don't follow me," he adds with a sharp glare.

She gives a soft sigh as if to say, "Whatever," before he's heading for the great bronze doors leading to the outside.

"She's going to be the end of me, I swear." he says aloud to no one in particular.

They swing open with naught a creak without Lysander touching them. The rubber soles of his shoes make dull thuds against the cobbled stone and the ice crunches loudly beneath them. As he steps out into the biting air, he is instantly set on edge. With a huff Lysander strides forward, sticking his hands in his pockets. Irritated, he kicks at the plentiful whiteness and watches as it floats merrily back to the ground.

_What goes up, must come down, _he thinks bitterly. He turns from the dent he has made in the smooth blanket of whiteness and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his robes.

Then, in the light of the observing moon, he spots a flash of white, and it definitely isn't the wind kicking up the snow. With a bout of blatant curiosity he follows the general direction it had gone, confused that it had left no tracks. After a few minutes of wandering, crossing a bridge and two dozen meters outward from there, he deduces that he is lost.

"Well, shit..." he mutters, his voice echoing off the icy ground and trees.

Lysander considers letting it go. After all, it could have easily of been a trick of the light. Even though the evidence suggests it, he isn't about to give up. He is swiftly rewarded for his troubles when he catches sight of a figure that couldn't be a dozen feet away. They move slowly, almost purposefully, through the frozen terrain. _Barefoot_, he thinks in disbelief.

The second his lips part to shout the words die in his throat.

Tumbling down their back, sandy locks twist and harrow at unnatural angles against the reflective cloak. The shiny cloak falls to the ground, almost the same shocking hue of its blanketed surface. A pallid hand holds two sparkly black shoes in its hold, which dangle loftily in their owner's grasp. They turn, arms spread out at their sides— twirling, he realizes quickly—and he freezes. But their eyes are closed, a deft mist escaping as rosy red lips dance slowly—almost gracefully, he thinks numbly—as if reciting a poem.

He can scarcely believe his own eyes. "Molly...?" he whispers, thoroughly taken aback.

What was meant to be several deep breaths turn out to be hurried, shallow pants. Slowly regaining his composure, he steels himself and plows ahead to follow her twirling path.

With a abrupt loss of breath, he thinks of being caught following her. Would she be frightened? Certainly she would question his motives for following her in the first place. He wonders of them himself. What _was_ he doing, following a Weasley? Even if he had happened to catch dancing along in the snow, heading straight for the edge of the forest?

That would surely hold up under inspection of interrogating relatives. They were sure to be out for his head. Too many times before had he been at the mercy of enraged cousins, sisters, brothers—the lot. He'd be eager to say that he didn't care. That he isn't concerned in the slightest about furious relatives or logical questions. Just then Molly stumbles slightly, and he all but rushes forward to catch her. Before Lysander has taken so much as three steps toward her, Molly has recovered and continues on.

The twist of his gut is nothing compared to the realization of the sheer recklessness of what he is doing hits him—hard. Chemicals hard-wired to set his pulse racing, bring shudders to his spine, and spread gooseflesh across his skin. The feeling of it all is almost _wild_. It's different than anything Lysander has ever felt before. And he _likes_ it. He feels... dangerous.

Then, as Lysander has taken in all of this, Molly falters in her step. So taken off guard by her sudden stop, Lysander doesn't notice the spot of darkness in her palm. He barely breathes and doesn't make a move for fear of discovery.

Without warning, she whips around. In the second her face is visible he catches sight of her eyes—wide and startlingly _blue_. Then the whole world is engulfed in darkness. Lysander doesn't have the time to grasp his wand before he meets the cold, hard ground in an instant. The pain doesn't register before the shriek.

"What the hell're you _doing_!?"

The darkness is clearing and Lysander is able to see her striding over to him. A whole different feeling twists his gut. Utter terror.

Just as he opens his mouth to plead for mercy, rather than offer an explanation, the enraged girl begins pummeling him. With every other word comes a strike, and eventually he understands the harsh shrieks as, "Who do you think you are? Following me around like some awful psychopath who planned to drag me into the forest and... do Merlin knows what! I should hex you right now, Lysander Rhyslen Scamander!"

He takes the abuse without uttering a single word. If he so much as opens his mouth, Lysander knows it would only bring more punches. Some to places he'd rather not have them be. For that is the first rule of handling the Weasley temper; you never know what's coming, so don't be there when it does.

When Molly finally stops, her breathing is ragged and shallow. As it tumbles past her lips, a fine mist is created from the condensation.

And being the genius that he is, the first word that escapes his lips is, "Sorry."

"_Sorry_? You're going to have to give me more than that to change my mind."

"I thought... I just thought you might need protecting, going toward the forest and all and I—"

"Protecting?" she screeches. "The only thing I need protection from is idiots like you!"

"I don't know what to say... I saw you standing there, and then I didn't know what I was doing. You were heading for the Forbidden Forest! I couldn't just walk away..."

The glare that she shoots him is fiery, enraged. As he sits there, the cold snow melting and seeping through his clothes and into his skin, the fury in her eyes is snuffed out like a candle. She sighs and offers him a hand.

"Next time, just ask, "Hey you want to walk with me?" instead of stalking me, okay?"

"I'll remember that next time."

"You'd better.

"Cross my heart,"

"And hope to die before I kill you myself," she finishes.

Lysander laughs. "Right," he answers.

"Good," she mutters.

"You know it was probably one of the hardest things I ever had to do, following you?"

"Why?"

"Your relatives terrify me."

At that, Molly laughs so much that she doubles over. An unflattering scarlet drowns Lysander's face.

"Hey, you'd be scared too if you were me!"

"You're right, but it's just funny." She wipes a tear from her eye, cheeks flushed.

Without thinking, he laces his hand in hers. She looks surprised for a moment until it melts like the snow under their feet. The smile that graces his lips warms his insides.

"I'd ask you for a dance, but I'm afraid you'll spear me with those shoes," he tells her, gesturing to the sparkly shoes in her unoccupied hand.

She grins playfully. "And I'd punch you if I wasn't afraid to get your blood in the snow."

"So... that's a yes?"

"Yeah," she shrugs.

They enter the Great Hall and are pleased to find it completely deserted. Lysander offers his hand to her and, with her tongue stuck out, she accepts it. In the next few hours, they twirl and spin across the icy floor, dancing to their own beat.


End file.
